


Weapons

by th3lastunic0rn



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3lastunic0rn/pseuds/th3lastunic0rn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genetically engineered to fight their war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pain was the first thing he ever truly felt.  Blazing, twisting lava that wound itself through his veins that lit every single nerve on fire.  He screamed and was surprised at how muffled his voice was.  He fought against the burning misery to open his eyes and canvass his surroundings.  Everything held a warped curvature and an unnatural green tint.  _Mako chamber._  The words flitted through his mind and he was vaguely aware he had no recollection of how he knew where he was.

There were people surrounding him, some staring in awe, most rapidly tapping their styluses against electronic pads between quick glances.  A man to the right of the tank, presumably a technician, worked furiously with the keypad, while another monitored vital signs. With a quick thumbs up from the man monitoring, the technician entered a sequence and ceased typing.  As quickly as the pain had come, it subsided and he let out a keening cry of relief.  It was then that he noticed the man who stood in the middle, hunched over with his hand clasped behind his back.  Seemingly, he had no other task other than to observe the event through the thick lenses of his glasses with an unwavering eerie smile that crept along his gaunt face.

He locked gazes with this man, even as the liquid mako emptied from his tank.  The man was in charge, he was sure of it.  _In charge of the science behind the creation._  Irrational fear flooded his senses when the man strode forward, patiently waiting as the technicians opened the chamber door, quickly-yet precisely-removing numerous I.V.s and other tubes.  When they finished and stepped aside, the man held out his hand to him, that ominous smile never leaving his face.

“Welcome to the world, Strife,” he said, his voice deep and guttural.  Strife hesitated, collapsed at the bottom of the mako chamber.  With the air mask now removed, the over-sterile tang of the room invaded his nostrils as he panted from exertion.   The man before him was dangerous, he knew without knowing why.  He strained to recall any past events prior to his painful awakening, for anything that would give him knowledge as to where he was and why.  The feeling of consternation rose wildly when his struggle ended futilely.  A soft cry escaped his lips and the man before him scoffed, the smile finally vanishing.  “The specimen is showing signs of confusion, therefore causing delay in reaction.  These emotions should have been programmed to be disregarded.  Mark for reprogram if specimen is unable to eliminate such unnecessary attributes,” the man said over his shoulder as a tech behind him took note.  He then turned back to Strife, his glare more than ample warning.  “The world has no use hesitant soldiers.  Now get up.”

There was no room for questions.  As quickly as he could, Strife clambered to his feet.  The pain he felt as he awakened had completely faded, but in its wake his muscles throbbed dully.  His balance was lost as he stepped forward, and he immediately threw his hands out to prevent falling.  That was when his breath hitched in his throat and his eyes widened.  Unlike the people who surrounded him, his hands weren’t soft, pink, and tipped with translucent neatly cut nails.  No, from his elbows, his forearm was dotted with black leathery skin that melded together until it was pure black.  And while the bone structure of his hand was nearly identical to that of a normal human’s, the last digit of each finger was tipped in a sharp, grey, bone claw.  The claws almost looked like plated armor, one end sharp, while the other lapped across the next phalange.  Despite his fear of keeping the man waiting, Strife hesitated once more.  _Death spawn genetically engineered to fight death spawn_.  Another bit of information that arrived unannounced and unexplained in his thoughts.  He closed his eyes in concentration as he pried for more knowledge.

“Professor Hojo?”  one of the assistance inquired, unsure of the specimen’s behavior.

“Leave him,” the man instructed.  Strife opened his eyes, tearing them away from his hands to cautiously eye the man before him.  At least now he had a name.  “I assure you, Strife.  The operation to reprogram the chip implanted in your brain is neither an appealing nor painless one.  I suggest you do all to avoid it.” 

Quickly, Strife quelled all questions that had formed and with an inaudible grunt, braced him on the metal frame of the mako tank and pushed forward.  The first few steps were awkward at best.  Strife stumbled incapably as he stretched his arms out to steady himself.  They were not the only extremities to extend, though.  Many workers jumped back as two wings from Strife’s back spread with a soft snap as they beat against the air and righted him.  The specimen had no concept of the anatomy of his body, and this was evident as he cried out, twisting around futilely in to glimpse at the base of the abnormal appendages.  They had felt so natural to him; it was hard to believe they were even attached.  While he was unable to see where his wings protruded, Strife did discover another body part that made him even less human.

Professor Hojo was quick to explain as Strife grabbed the long, whip-like tail to examine.  “While most of your DNA is altered, we did try to make you as human as possible.  However, certain mutations were unavoidable and removal has a high percentage of resulting in paralysis.”  Strife dropped his tail and testily whipped to each side, while drawing his wings up.  He found it easier to stand if he centered their weight.   He failed to understand the meaning behind the professor’s engineering.  Why did it matter if he looked human or not?  He must have voiced his concern because Hojo offered more explanations, though not without an exasperated sigh.  “There is belief you will be easier to incorporate into Shinra military outfits the less you resemble a death spawn.  Most soldiers prefer not to have their enemy fight alongside them.”

                “Fight?”  Strife questioned.  Before he received an answer, Professor Hojo waved a technician over, motioning to the stainless steel examining table in the middle of the room.  Strife immediately lost his footing again as the technician grabbed his arm to pull him over.  He was granted just enough time to regain his balance before being forced onto the table.   

“Yes.  You are a last ditch effort to prevent the annihilation of mankind.  Hopefully you won’t disappoint,” Hojo said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.  “Because if you are not up to standard, it will mean twelve years wasted and we will have no further use for you.”

***

                After the initial examination, Strife endured rounds of basic physical testing before being brought to a confinement chamber for the night.  There was only a mattress on the floor that lacked pillows or blankets and a commode in the far right corner, but Strife had never known anything of adequate furnishings and so he didn’t complain.  Being both mentally and physically exhausted, sleep came easy that night.

                When Strife awoke, he was no longer in confinement.  Instead, he was lying on his stomach in a shallow pool of water.  With a startled cry he pushed himself up onto his heels, spitting and coughing water he had accidently inhaled.  As he recovered, he surveyed his surroundings.  The pool was a shallow man made pond, lined with alabaster bricks that deepened toward the middle.  The foliage was typical for the environment, and Strife reached out to touch a lily pad for his first time.  His movements were slow and hindered, as if he were sedated.  He shook his head to try to clear it.  Had Professor Hojo drugged and brought him here?  He looked beyond the pond and saw nothing but rolling hills dotted thickly with mature trees bearing golden leaves.  Other than the pond, there was nothing man made in sight.

                “You’re finally awake,” a voice commented behind him.  Strife whirled, standing to his feet with his wings raised and poised to fight.  The man chuckled, but there was nothing kind in his voice.  His features were hard to make out, as if Strife were viewing him through fogged glass.  He rubbed his eyes, sure there was something obscuring his vision, but it didn’t clear.  “You’re much scrawnier than I imaged you would be,” the man said, grabbing Strife’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.   Immediately, Strife jumped back with a gasp.  The man had been on the other side of the pond.  There was no physical way for him to close the gap between them in so short amount of time and certainly not unnoticed with Strife’s enhanced senses.

                “Who are you?”  Strife asked as he retreated.  This didn’t seem to faze the man at all, as he kept pace with him.

                “So short and young and stupid as well,” the man continued, ignoring the question.  “I think they’ve wasted their time and money on you.  You’re not but a worthless runt.”  Strife scowled at the words, a low growl rising in his throat.  The man only laughed again; cold and emotionless.  Indignantly, Strife struck his wing towards the man’s face while swinging his fist for a follow up attack.  The sedatives must have still been in his system, as his movements were still far too slow.  The man easily blocked his wing with his forearm and grabbed his wrist before his fist could connect.  Before he could react, Strife found himself face down in the pond again as the overwhelming force of the man’s open hand blow sent him reeling.  He hadn’t even heard the break, only felt the pain as his nose was shattered.  The man was not only quicker than him, but stronger as well.  That was even more evident as a hand gripped his hair and wrenched him to his feet.

                “As I said, useless.  Hard to believe I had anything to do with your creation,” the man spat before pushing him back.  Strife landed hard on his backside, too dazed to support himself.  His vision was becoming worse as everything became as blurry as his assailant. 

                “What do you-?” Strife was cut short as the man leaned down.  He waivered on the edge of consciousness, blotches of black already crowding his hazy vision.

                “Don’t forget.  You are nothing but a puppet,”  the man hissed into his ear.  It was the last Strife heard before he blacked out.

                When he woke again, he was back in confinement, laying in the same position he had fallen asleep in.  His clothes were dry, his nose unbroken, and no trace of sedatives were in his system.  Strife sat up, brows knitted in confusion.  He was absolutely sure what had transpired was real.  However, there was no evidence of it. 

                Strife shook his head as he slowly laid back down.  He’d be sure to ask the professor in the morning.

 in the morning.


	2. chapter 2

I redid this chapter because I’m a perfectionist and am never satisfied with my work. Next chapter coming soon, I promise. Also, you don’t see it much in this chapter, but my writing is very morbid. There will be much gore. So if you’re into the fluffy stuff, go elsewhere.

0*0*0*0*0

“You’re not supposed to have that,” Kunsel warned, without glancing away from his phone. The SOLDIER 1rst beside him shrugged nonchalantly and gulped another swig from his flask. At this point, he didn’t even bother to disguise it. Kunsel sighed dramatically, glad they weren’t in plain view. Once they had arrived at Fort McKee, their unit had been granted a few hours of down time and were free to stretch their legs. Zack, had chosen an outcropping that overlooked the fort to establish privacy, obviously wanted to poison himself with boot leg SOLDIER grade liquor. Any inquiry about where he purchased it would lead to less than favorable answers. Where Kunsel used his skills to acquire intel concerning the military and war, Zack spent much of his abilities breaking every regulation the military had.

“Even the Wutaiians are offered a daily draught of sake. But us fine soldiers of Shin-ra get absolutely fucking nothing. Does that make sense to you?” Zack threw back another mouthful, which tempted Kunsel to snatch it away before his comrade became completely inebriated. No matter what Zack thought, his drunken returns back to camp were not unnoticed. Their CO only held his tongue because Zack was General Hewley’s pupil, which made him untouchable. Kunsel was not so lucky. He was sure the detail assignments given to him as the CO’s retaliation for his inability to punish Zack. If his comrade noticed, he didn’t say anything. More than likely, he didn’t even care enough to quit drinking. Despite what others thought, Zack Fair was a truly selfish man.

Kunsel was scanning the headlines of the Shin-ra news on his phone when a notification popped up with a small chirp. It was a message from Caleast, another SOLDIER he’d befriended in a dive bar in Junon while they were still recruits. Like Kunsel, he had a knack for networking and acquiring information. Had he not chosen the career of a SOLDIER, he would have done well as a Turk. A few of his acquaintances were high ranking in the Shin-ra hierarchy. Some were more than willing to divulge information for certain courtesies they were unable to execute themselves.

“Hm. Sehr interessant,” Kunsel muttered as he read the message, earning a sidelong glance from Zack. The other SOLDIER didn’t say anything, long used to his companion speaking his native language. “It seems Shin-ra has yet again defied the will of the gods. They’re bringing another one of their mutations to the field.” As he reread the text, Kunsel could feel his blood boil. He never cared for the creations of the Shin-ra science department. They sickened him because he could always see what they were before they had turned into crazed mako-infused beasts whose sole purposes were to kill. At least they were allies, however. This new abomination was genetically infused with the terror and dread of all humanity-a death spawn. They were creatures with an insatiable hunger for destruction and Kunsel hated them wholeheartedly.

“So?” Zack said with a shrug. “That’s nothing new.” He lifted his flask to his lips once more, but paused as he noticed how Kunsel grimaced.

“It’s a death spawn mutation,” Kunsel growled out. “And they’re bringing it here. So help me Odin, if they assign it to our unit, I’ll put a bullet between its gods damned eyes.” Zack was silent for once, and Kunsel was grateful. His comrade knew where his hatred towards the death spawn originated. Nobody could forget the wake of death spawn destruction.

They appeared not long after the Wutaiian war ended. Initially, death spawn were categorized as an unknown species from the dense forest of the northern continent, migrating after the eradication of their habitat for war efforts. Since their numbers were few, they were easily dealt with. Moberly, a town on the southern coast of the northern continent was the first to witness the true carnage the death spawn were capable of.

It was also Kunsel’s hometown. The people of Moberly were completely unprepared. The death spawn were no longer dog sized drakes picking off cattle that wandered too far. There were many of all sizes and shapes, each with the intent to annihilate every living thing in its path. Their skins were always jet black and reeking of death. Kunsel remembered smelling their fetid stench before ever seeing them. Some townspeople fell to claws, spikes, or teeth. They were the few and fortunate ones who took an easy, quick death. Most fell to the millions of diminutive, parasitic insect-like death spawn who chewed through skin and infected their host.

Once the death spawn-who were soon named the swarm after the fall of Moberly-was inside its host, it would crawl repulsively beneath the epidermis, spreading its disease. As the infection advanced, the host’s veins thickened and blackened, easily visible beneath paling skin. Kunsel could never forget the screams of agony and despair as bodies twisted and swelled grotesquely, mutating into things wholly inhuman. Limbs ripped from bodies as jarring spikes of razor sharp bone and sinewy muscle replaced them. Tumor-like growths protected by hardened black scales grew where the death spawn took up residence, most located near the spine allowing the death spawn to control its host even after death. The people who fell to the swarm experienced long, harrowing deaths.

Kunsel’s mother and sister had been among them. He didn’t remember much after they were taken, and perhaps that was for the better. The few survivors of Moberly fled to Bone Village to take refuge. Kunsel assumed his father had also been slaughtered, since he never saw him after the massacre. He prayed his death had been quick, not like those that were killed by the swarm.

“If you do that, you’ll be court martialed,” Zack warned. Kunsel ignored him and gripped his PHS tightly. The message Caleast sent him contained no photographs or physical description of Shin-ra’s latest project. He only hoped the abomination was small enough that they could manage it if it went out of control. Not like the large witherwings that roamed near the northern crater. “Still though,” Zack continued, “I don’t think there’s a soul here who wouldn’t want to kill it. Shin-ra has to be absolutely fucking nuts to bring something like that out here. Hopefully it’ll be handed off to Foxtrot. Gods, I hate those uptight bastards. Hopefully they’ll off each other.”

“It’ll probably be given to someone in the upper ranks. Someone who has more to lose if anything were to happen to it,” Kunsel rationalized. “Our unit has a fair share of SOLDIER Firsts. More than most of the others stationed here. It’s not unreasonable to think that we may acquire the mutated bitch.” He knew Zack-as drunk as he was-had already thought about that. His comrade was trying to console him, knowing what he had gone through in Moberly. ‘But he didn’t have to watch as his family was murdered in front of him’ Kunsel thought bitterly . He hated when Zack tried to empathize with him. Gongaga had been kept out of reach of the death spawn by the military, and it wasn’t likely the battle would be brought there any time soon. Zack’s family and friends were kept safe, while Kunsel had nothing to return to.

“It won’t be put into our unit,” Zack assured.

“Why, are you going to cry to General Hewley about it?” Kunsel quipped, glaring. He meant his words to sting, to rouse Zack into an argument. Anxiety was bearing down on him and he had no way to relieve the tension.

Zack didn’t take the bait, however. He merely shrugged and took another drink. “Should I?”

“Gods dammit! Why are you so damn calm about this? You’ve seen what they do; you know they’re not some simple animal! The death spawn are sentient. What’s to say this freak isn’t going to turn on us the moment it gets the chance?” Throwing his hands in the air, Kunsel sighed exasperated. Much to his chagrin, Zack remained silent as he continued to rant. “These things butcher people for no reason and now we’re just going to allow one to fight alongside us! I just can’t believe this…” Inexplicably, Zack cut his tirade off by shoving his flask into his face. For once, Kunsel was more than happy to accept, wanting nothing more than to wash the memories of Moberly down.

“Don’t worry, no matter where it ends up, we’ll take care of it,” Zack promised, smirking. In the distance, the loudening sound of helicopter blades signaled the aircraft’s approach.

0*0*0*0*

Totally what the helicopter sounds like: http://youtube /wTwDhe0T0AY


	3. chapter 3

Clouds hung low in the sky, blotting out the sun and threatening rain with their darkened underbellies. The wind whipped around Strife as he stepped from the helicopter. He paused to sniff the air, nose immediately wrinkled in disgust at the acrid scent of metal, fuel, and man. A sidelong glance caste towards the two PFCs that accompanied him to Fort Mckee bitterly reminded him why he hated the fetor of mankind. The short, staunch PFC to his right smirked in response, causing Strife to hastily avert his gaze. 

“We’ll miss you,” Ballard admitted in a low town. The other PFC chortled, licking his lips lewdly. “But not as much as the hounds will. I do hope you’ll give them some thought in your long, lonely nights out here.”

Bennett gave a few imitating barks and laughed. “Aye, I’m not so sure they’ll ever have a bitch as good as you.” 

“Fuck you,” Strife growled through grit teeth, raising his chin in defiance. Ballard and Bennett exchanged knowing glances and laughed. These two would never make it beyond enlisted ranks, if they were even promoted beyond private. Strife considered them expendable, but Shinra regarded their sadism crucial when assigning guard to a death spawn specimen that could potentially become a threat to humanity. Their conduct was less than desirable by any human standard, however they were human and still held more rights to live than Strife in the eyes of all but investors and the team of scientists responsible for creating him. I am worth less than the sweat and piss sodden ground which we trod on, Strife thought bitterly. While Ballard and Bennett personally ensured his misery for the past year since his awakening, the rest of Shinra staff had remained unsympathetic. I am not human, therefor I should not be treated as such.

The two PFCs abruptly ceased their bawdy ridicule and snapped to attention when a military troop carrier pulled up beside them and two officers stepped out. With a wave of one of the officer’s hands, the driver of the troop carrier pulled away with a small spray of dust. The officer approached, two stars adorning his uniform.

“I’m major general Lukas Altamonte,” the officer introduced, hands clasped behind his back. A quick nod to his right and he introduced the officer standing beside him. “This is SOLDIER Third Class and Second Lieutenant Steep, who oversees the platoon in which you will be a part of.” Altamont scrutinized him with a dead panned expression which gave no indication of how he felt towards a death spawn working within his ranks. Strife felt relieved. Under the major general’s command, perhaps he could find relief from the ridicule and harassment he usually faced.

“Odin, he’s young,” Steep declared. 

“It doesn’t matter. I assume he’s well trained and prepared for combat,” Altamont dismissed. Ballard gave an affirmative. “Good. I was assured there were measures in place to keep him from retaliating against Shin-ra command. Are they effective?”

“That they are.” Bennett answered. “We extensively tested them.” Altamont held his hand up, barring the PFC from further explanation for which Strife was thankful, because he had no doubt that Bennett wouldn’t hesitate to clarify the procedures taken to assess the effectiveness of the chip implanted in his head. 

“I’m sure that you did.” Perhaps it was his imagination, but Strife thought he detected a sour note of disgust in Altamont’s voice. The major general was well practiced in shielding his inner thoughts behind an impassive demeanor. It was the same appearance of any soldier who had fought against the death spawn after several tours. The same gladness that Strife perceived earlier was rapidly replaced with ambiguity. A man of Altamont’s stature was not like to direct any sympathy towards him. The indifference could mean either more cruelty or a reprieve from it. Strife could only hope for the latter.

“Privates, you are dismissed,” Altamont ordered. Bennett and Ballard affirmed and turned to leave, murmuring promises under their breaths that only Strife was able to hear. As they walked back to the helicopter, he silently sighed in relief. More than likely, they would be assigned to a different task back in Midgar and he would never have to see them again. Nothing could eliminate the memory of the year spent under their supervision, but he remained optimistic that not all humans were as cruel as they. When the major general dismissed Steep and motioned for Strife to follow, he was all too happy to comply. “You’ll have your own room in the barracks for now,” Altamont explained. “But don’t get too cozy. General Sephiroth will arrive tomorrow and we’ll be organizing an attack on death spawn infected territory north of here.”

“We’re initiating the combat?” Strife inquired incredulously. “Previous attempts to push back the death spawn have proven to be ineffective, what’s different this time?”

“Shin-ra has spent years and an insurmountable budget trying to develop a weapon to effectively combat the death spawn that would provide minimal risk of human casualty,” Altamont responded. “And now you’re here.”

0*0*0*0*0  
Brightness burned through his eyelids as he woke. The hum of electricity, purr of motors waiting in idle, and clomping of boots against the concrete floor were unusually absent however. If the florescent lights were on, then there was either an emergency or morning drills had already begun. The lack of sound however… 

Strife snapped his eyes open only to be greeted with an immense stabbing pain assaulting his head. Hissing, he laid back down and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to abate to a dull throb before he attempted to rouse again. The light was nearly blinding as he rolled onto his side, hand pushing against the warm soil beneath him in attempt to stand. Strife paused, bewildered. When he had fallen asleep, it was in a small room within the barracks on his cot and not outside. Immediately he assumed the soldiers had played a prank and moved him outside while he slept. However, he dismissed that theory when he surveyed his surroundings. He was nowhere near Fort Mckee.

The sky was as bright as it would be with a noonday sun, but there was neither sun nor any visible source of where the light was coming from. The ground was phenomenally flat and without any discernable gradients. As far as he could see, the only vegetation he could see were pure white lilies clustered so closely together that the blackened soil beneath him was barely visible. He reached out to one, running a claw along the petal, delicately scratching the surface.

“Hello,” a timid voice greeted from behind him. Strife startled, reaching for the dagger strapped to his thigh, but his hand grasped at nothing. He whirled and attempted to rise to his feet, only to stumble dizzily and fall on his rear, crushing the flowers beneath him. It was incomprehensible how this woman was able to elude his senses and approach without being noticed. She smiled hesitantly at him, clutching the pink fabric of her dress nervously. “Sorry if I scared you,” she mumbled apologetically. When Strife didn’t respond, she explained, “I don’t see very many people here. They pass through so quickly, none linger for long. But you…” She trailed off for a moment, pondering her next words. “You shouldn’t exist,” she said, her sweet smile fading from her lips. She bent over, long brown hair slipping over her shoulder as she reached out to cup his cheek in her palm. Strife jerked away and snarled in warning. “I’m sorry,” she apologized with a sigh, dropping her hand. She sat down across from him, observing him in silence. The cloying scent of flowers was dizzyingly overwhelming and Strife found it becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. “You shouldn’t exist,” the woman repeated.

“Like I had a choice,” Strife responded agitated. The woman in pink didn’t seem to possess a weapon, the fabric of her dress so thin and soft that it would be impossible to cloak any holster. Still, he righted himself into a crouch in preparation for an attack. If she noticed, she didn’t give any evidence that she had. Instead she placed her hands over her thighs and smoothed the folds of her dress out, fiddling with the hem.

“I know,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Strife waited for her to elaborate, for an indication as to where the conversation was headed. “Then what do you want from me?” he asked, when she said nothing more. The inquiry was only met with more silence and the woman in pink continued to pay with her dress, eyes cast to the side. Her mouth moved minutely as if she wanted to speak, but her voice was not heard. Briefly the thought that he might have lost his sense of hearing flickered through his thoughts, but he could still hear the sound of her fingers moving across her dress and the soft smacking of her tongue in her mouth as it moved to form words. He shifted, leather creaking. His hearing wasn’t lost, she was merely speaking to herself. He was thinking of leaving, finding a way out of the endless field of flowers when she finally spoke again.

“They say you may be useful.”

“Who?” When she didn’t answer again, Strife let out an exasperated sigh and angrily slapped the ground before him. “Did you not hear me?!” He demanded. Expression saddening, she plucked a nearby lily and held it out to him. He ignored it and waited for her to answer. 

“You’re only a child.” When she scooted forward and thrust the flower into his hands, he was unable to move away, rooted in his crouched position. She closed her hand over his and forced him to grasp the stem, moving the flower to be held against his chest. The field of flowers began to blur and spin and for a moment, Strife thought he was going to fall. He struggled to remain upright, but to no avail. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry,” he heard her say, the feeling of her soft hands fading as quickly as his vision.

When Strife awoke in his room in the barracks, the scent of flowers still lingered in the air. 

0*0*0*0*0  
A/N: Who’s the lady in pink? OMG, I don’t know! Some things you may have noticed: I write so sporadically that my writing style may have changed. I take forever to update. You can encourage me to update more frequently by writing a review. Do you like it? Love it? Hate it? Whatever you want to say, say it. I appreciate all reviews. I don’t write fluff, so be prepared when I finally add more chapters for some heavy dark tones. Also, my knowledge on the structure of the military is very limited, so if you see that I’ve written something that is wrong, please feel free to correct me. If you have an Xbox One, feel free to add my account and we can do some online nerdenings. My live account is the same name as my penname.


	4. chapter 4

A/N: No matter what game you play, Sephiroth is a douche. Personally, I've never considered Cloud and his relationship to be anything but a power struggle. So don't be expecting any romance between them in my fanfic. Your reviews are more than welcome, even if it's constructive criticism. I could use the encouragement. 

0*0*0*0*0

It was shortly after supper when Steep found Strife in his room checking his equipment. A bowl of half eaten soup was left on the makeshift table. Noting that his presence wasn't exactly welcomed, Strife had opted to remain behind closed doors. Most of the day had been spent acquainting himself with the layout of the base and surrounding areas by maps he'd collected from a briefing room. When Steep entered, it was a welcome relief to the boredom he'd endured all day. 

“Not to your liking?” Steep asked, noticing the bowl. 

Sheathing his two swords to hang on his hips, Strife shook his head to negate the thought. “Better than anything I've had. I'm just not hungry,” he explained.

“When you're on base, you learn to relish every bite. When you're out in the field, MREs are the only things you'll have to eat.” Strife hummed in feigned interest. Surely, MREs couldn't be worse than the bland laboratory diet he'd eaten over the past year. “Anyway, I'm here to escort you to General Sephiroth regarding the march on Summit Peaks tomorrow.”

That piqued Strife's interests. General Sephiroth had flown in to the base earlier in the morning. As a respected and renowned SOLDIER, the base had been eagerly anticipating arrival. Strife had heard much about it before he shut himself in his room. 

As he followed Steep, Strife admitted that he also looked forward to meeting Sephiroth. While most were unaware of the general's origins, Strife had known from his time spent with professor Hojo. Mostly from the numerous comparisons the biologist made between them. Strife's own design was modeled after Sephiroth's. Like a father. Though, professor Hojo reminded him repeatedly that he was not as successful at creating him as he was Sephiroth. The condemnation only drove Strife to work more arduously to prove that he wasn't a failure. He hoped Sephiroth would see his worth. That he would be less hostile considering their common connection.

“He's inside,” Steep informed as they approached a meeting room with closed doors. The key card reader beeped and flashed green when he swiped his card across it, opening the doors. Strife paused, nervous. “The rumors aren't true, you know. He doesn't eat death spawn for breakfast, so you have nothing to fear.” 

Strife glared deliberately before stepping inside and leaving the second lieutenant behind. The room was dim, the overhead lights off and only a lamp on a solid oak desk casting light. There were two people in the room, one seated and the other in a full SOLDIER First uniform whose face was shielded by his helmet. Presumably the seated man was General Sephiroth, though he was not dressed in a military uniform.

“I will discuss your concerns with General Hewley,” Sephiroth told the SOLDIER. “You are dismissed.” Strife stepped to the side to allow the SOLDIER to pass and nervously came forward. Sephiroth did not immediately address him, instead surveyed the map spread across the desk, seemingly lost in concentration. Strife patiently waited, studying the structure of the general's face scouting for similarities. They had the same pointed chin and jawline, high cheek bones and narrow brows. The shape and color of their eyes were different, but Strife noted the same cat-slit pupils. If his creation was based on Sephiroth, then perhaps he could earn the same respect and admiration as he. You are a clone and nothing more.

“Strife.” Promptly, he stood at attention. Sephiroth regarded him nonchalantly. “You were told that we're leaving for Summit Peaks tomorrow?” 

“Yes, General,” Strife responded.

“Good. You'll be with 1rst platoon Death Dealers under the Ruby Dragon company, who will brief you on the attack strategy.” He said nothing more, to Strife's confusion.

“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?” Strife felt that this meeting was a wasted effort if all Sephiroth wanted to tell him was which platoon he was assigned.

"What's your name?" He asked, not looking up from the map he continued to mark. Strife shifted, unsure of how the topic changed so suddenly. 

"It's Strife," he replied awkwardly, trying to comprehend the meaning behind the question. Sephiroth had known that, had called him by his name when he entered. Strife didn't figured him to forget so suddenly. The man before him marked a large 'X' on the map before he set his marker down with an exasperated sigh.

"That's the name Professor Hojo gave you, yes?" Strife nodded with a small 'yes sir', and Sephiroth gave curious glance over his body. As uncomfortable as this made him, Strife held his stance. He refused to come off as nerveless in the general's presence. "You've never thought to name yourself?" Though Sephiroth's expression was as apathetic as it usually appeared, his voice held a subtle condescending tone.

Strife faltered for a moment, before responding, "No sir." The thought had never crossed his mind. It was the name given to him when he was brought to a wakeful state, and he had never seen a reason to change it. 

It was clear that Sephiroth disapproved, however. "Pathetic. Do you ever think for yourself, or do you always let that man decide how you should live?" When Strife didn't respond, the general continued. "You're just the same as all the other bio-weapons he brings out to the field. Weak and brainless, worth nothing when it comes to tactile battle. Only difference between you and them is you're capable of looking somewhat human," Sephiroth deliberately looked to the abnormal extremities protruding from the blonde's back. It was the same look he received from nearly everyone who was unaccustomed to the way he was engineered. Strife shifted slightly, drawing his wings closer to his shoulder blades, uncomfortable under Sephiroth's lingering gaze. With a slight shrug of his shoulders, the general turned back to the map, reviewing what he had marked. “You’re assigned under Major General Altamont, but I believe you know that ultimately I command you.”

“You are a general of the Shin-ra army,” Strife affirmed. 

Finally finished analyzing the map, Sephiroth capped the marker and set it down. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table while he laced his fingers together before his face. “I assume you have the ability to interpret the meaning behind my words.” Strife shook his head, confused. Sephiroth snorted derisively. “Of course not. To put it simply, no matter what orders you are given and by who, my own will always supersede them. Despite what the order is, you will obey even if you don't want to.” He beckoned him closer with a few waves of his hand.

Hesitantly Strife approached, his eyes never breaking with the general's gaze. Even with the knowledge of several forms of combated implanted in his memories, he was unprepared when Sephiroth suddenly rose and seized his hair, slamming his face forcefully down onto the desk. He heard the crack first, then felt intense pain emanating from his smashed nose. He bucked against him, grasping the edge of the desk with both hands to push himself up, but Sephiroth held him in place, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I am faster, I am stronger, I am smarter than you. Your very existence is a waste of time, money, and effort, though... not without any purpose. Be assured that I will find use for you, before your dead body is found with the rest of your death spawn brethren.” He released his grip then, and Strife lurched backward. Blood seeped from his broken nose and dribbled into his mouth as he gasped for breath. It smeared across his face when he tried to wipe it away. Sephiroth had resumed his seat, leaning back in his chair while he watched Strife struggle to gain composure. “You are dismissed,” the general smirked, tilting his head towards the door. “Tell nobody of this.”

Dazed and bewildered, Strife stood with his hands clenched at his sides. They were both created and raised by the same man, suffered many of the same pains, yet Sephiroth showed no compassion. He was still indisputably human and therefor oblivious or callous to the misery Strife still suffered. “That means you can go now,” quipped Sephiroth to which Strife was more than happy to oblige him.

Steep had not remained to accompany him back to his room, for which he was grateful. The hallways of the building were deserted as he made his way back outside, the bloody wreck of his face twisting angrily. Gingerly, he touched his nose, feeling the swelling around the break. The bone should mend itself by morning with the advanced healing of the mako in his blood, if he were lucky. In all probability, it would take two or more days to heal, and the bruising would remain much longer. He knew questions would be asked, and he'd have to form a plausible lie.

As the sun began to set below the horizon, Strife made his way back to the barracks. He paused on his way, sighting an outcropping that overlooked the base. Nobody would be there to inquire about his injury, nor make any jeering comments. Deciding it would be best for privacy, he made his way there.


End file.
